Iniquity in the Mirror
by blood-songs
Summary: Morgana thinks she'd brave a thousand fires in her recklessness to see if she can obtain this thing, this one precious thing she's yearned for ever since she'd began to dream of this man, her King, her beloved.  Contains heavy het.


When the castle is quiet and drowsy with sleep in its dark corridors, Morgana dreams.

She has always dreamed. Some dreams are clearer than others, startling visions of things to come she does not always recognise. Some dreams are out of her grasp, teasing tendrils of fog that slip away as she reaches out, cries out as they dissipate into a blackness that threatens to swallow her whole.

Morgana reaches for Arthur almost by instinct, sometimes. Her chambers are far away from Arthur's, now, even though they used to comfort each other at night as children. That scowling little blond boy would knock a little hesitantly at her door, mouth set in a tight and stubborn line as he shoved his way into her room to huddle in a corner. She would tease him about other things, but not about bad dreams; she understood nightmares, terrifyingly real nightmares more than anyone probably should. So Morgana would slip a bird-thin arm around his shoulder, and hold him there, a trembling ball of warmth against her own until they both drifted off to sleep.

And similarly, Arthur would open his doors to her, draping a cloak across her shoulders as they both sat on the edge of his bed, never saying a word but at the same time, saying all the things they could possibly wish to convey.

The brother she never had.

But they're older now; she's filled out wantonly into a woman's mysterious curves, and Arthur grew into his armour, has his responsibilities and reputation to bear. She has Guinevere, sometimes, but it's not the same. She wouldn't burden Gwen with that, no. Sweet, innocent Gwen, her naive handmaiden who has no inkling as to the darker thoughts that lurk unbidden in Morgana's dreams, Morgana's mind.

If she only knew.

Morgana dreams, sighs as she arches serpentine off the bed, gripping visions of another sort entirely — a sort that is not unwelcome, but which makes her flush with shame when she recalls them in the morning, drawing wetness away from her thighs with her thin fingers. Although sleep grips her tight, in unforgiving clutches, she feels the sensations all too strongly as if they were real, feels the broad hands in her half-awake state pressing dark bruises onto her hips.

"Your Majesty," she moans quietly, under her breath, eyes darting wildly under her lids as her lashes flutter. Her dark hair fans over the pillow, coming undone from her thick braid, sweat dotting her brow as she writhes, an undulating mess of desire between her sheets. "Uther."

The feeling of calloused fingers stroking her sides is palpable, the hard mouth against the gentle swell of her breasts wet and hot. She's hovering on the edge of consciousness as she slides, feverish, from beyond to reality; her hand is already snaking deliciously southwards of the jut of her waist.

Morgana whimpers, and almost misses the creak of her door as it trembles ajar. Her eyes snap open, and, breathing heavily, she yanks her hand back as if burned and pulls her sheets over herself. "Who's there?" She calls, shakily, nerves frayed and blood pounding with desire caught in her throat.

"Morgana," Uther says heavily, concern on his face in what little expression she can make out on his face. His eyes are drawn but warm, his mouth set. It's odd to see him without his crown these days, and Morgana feels a little surprised at how human it makes him look. Uther never loses the feeling of regal pride he carries about him like a cloak, however, and that sharp sense of danger like a prowling lion, even as the years creep by.

He is wan in the moonlight, but handsome as he always is; proud and strong. Uther Pendragon, a King of Camelot like no other.

She shivers, partly from her misplaced desire and from reverence, and moves gracefully off the bed to greet him. "Your Majesty. Are you well?"

"Yes, Morgana." Uther hesitates, but he nods to reaffirm his words. "Yes. I heard from Gaius you were having nightmares again as of late, and I thought of checking on you. I heard some noises of distress when I was outside your door, and thought I'd see if you needed rousing from a bad dream."

Morgana turns a choking shade of scarlet, and she hopes it's not obvious in the darkness of her chambers. "I-I'm fine, my liege. It wasn't a bad dream, not tonight," she stutters, and the words tumble out as she loses control over them. Frankly, Morgana is horrified at herself; what if Uther had heard her? "Not tonight," she repeats, blinking and rooted to the spot.

Uther exhales, and steps forward. "I worry about you, my lady." He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, trailing an affectionate thumb down the shell. Morgana tries not to shudder at the contact, but has to shut her eyes tightly for a second to keep it hidden. She loathes being young, being so full of need, when even the barest brush of skin feels like a thousand promises, feels like heated passion on silk, feels like biting and bruising kisses on her swanlike neck.

She laughs, a little unsteadily. "I know, your Majesty. But it's all right, Gaius' medicine helps these days." Morgana can't help but tilt her head, just a little, because Uther hasn't removed his hand, and she hopes, hopes so desperately... "Thank you for asking after me," she murmurs almost imperceptibly, breath ghosting over his hands.

Those thick, sturdy hands with those sure, sure fingers she's dreamed about, every other night. Morgana is going to hell for this, but she thinks she'd brave a thousand fires in her recklessness to see if she can obtain this thing, this one precious thing she's yearned for ever since she'd began to dream of this man, her King, her beloved.

Uther starts when her lips brush his palms, and he almost draws back in his shock. But he doesn't, and his hooded eyes lock with Morgana's smouldering green, her gaze fearful and uncertain. Morgana takes a deep breath, and presses closer. If she's already going to be damned, anyway...

"Morgana," Uther's voice is cracked, the sound of a resolve steadily breaking. Morgana knows she is beautiful, like the fey her dreams whisper about; she knows how much of a vision she is in her dresses at court, when lords and ladies both look upon her with lust in their greedy eyes. She knows Arthur watches her, sometimes, she knows she commands the gaze of the knights, and above all, she is aware, all-too painfully aware of Uther's eyes tracking her at the table — inscrutable, almost, but always there.

Always watching her. It makes her tingle with anticipation, sometimes, makes her shy. Because knights, knights are nothing compared to the sheer dignity and raw beauty of the man that is Uther Pendragon. Nothing.

"My lord," Morgana breathes, knowing full well how her witchcraft eyes can affect any man. "My lord," she murmurs again, her eyes this side of glistening in the dark, as she slides a hand to thumb against his palm, pulling it to her chest and clasping it between her fingers.

Uther shakes his head, but it's a half-hearted gesture. "Morgana, I— You're my ward—"

"It's all right, sire," she soothes, heart thumping frantically and threatening to burst. It's going to happen, she thinks in amazement. This is going to happen, and she feels so consumed by trepidation and desire both it feels like she could drown. "Don't you worry about a thing."

Gently, she leads him over to her bed, pulling him on top of her. Uther raises a shaky hand to her face, strokes the soft skin of her pale cheek with a tenderness almost unbecoming of the hard and ruthless man who has purged the land of a score of sorcerers. Tears of sorrow prick her eyes a little, at that, to remember how guarded and closed off Uther is, at times, and how lonely he must be without Ygraine at his side.

He almost misunderstands, of course, and shifts back. "Am I—"

"No! No, your Majesty," she says quickly, and pulls his hand back to slide it wonderfully, ah, over her breast. Morgana bites back a moan, and Uther makes a little strangled sound of desire as he drags a questing finger over her nipple through her shift.

It's as though a dam has broken; Uther is gentle, still, but his hands are now moving with purpose. Morgana pushes gently against him, bucking up to feel the lines of his body, hard after all those years of war, and feeling the delicious heat of him through his breeches. Uther is everything, everything she has dreamed of, and more.

She wants everything.

He moves, slowly, teases her like she has never been teased. Morgana has had awkward fumblings with the occasional young visiting lord, and even with _Gwen_, who's never been averse to being handsy when she's had a little too much wine. But no one is like Uther, has ever been Uther. Uther with his experience and ragged, scarred body she can view in all its glory as he shrugs off his shift, Uther with his knowing fingers and powerful thighs that part her legs as she opens up for him, like a flower.

"My lord," she groans against his neck, mouthing at his jaw and feeling the slight stubble there experimentally. Uther is warm, warm and real and beloved, and in her arms. It's surreal, and she never wants it to stop. "Touch me."

Uther acquiesces, kissing and kissing her until she's out of breath, and she's dizzy from desire. She tilts her head back, and he moves in as he takes the silent invitation she's extending for what it is. He nips at her ears, her neck, the long and delectable line of her collar and all the way down to her breasts, her shift now long removed and possibly strewn haphazardly on the floor, draws out impossible mewls and gasps from her person as he does.

Her eyes are half-closed; Morgana is aware, so aware of him now in this moment. It's a perfect moment, she thinks dazedly, his hands gripping and colouring bruises on her skin which will certainly show in the morning, marks of his passion. Marks of his desire for her.

She moans, reaching her hands up and over her head to clutch at something, anything, and grips her pillow as he flips her over effortlessly with just one hand — she feels a hot and heady flash of arousal as he does that, at his casual strength — and sinks that same hand down her legs, nudging her thighs aparts as he works a finger down her folds.

"Oh, God!" Morgana cries out, jerking back against him, wanting him so much it hurts. Uther hushes her, kisses the back of her spine as she writhes, as he rubs a finger up and around the little bundle of nerves that make her knees go weak, and presses inside her. "Please," she begs, incoherent now. "_Please_—"

"Soon, my pet," he murmurs, and his voice is shaky. "Be patient." And he moves, twisting his fingers just so, driving her absolutely wild. "Morgana, you're... you're so beautiful."

Morgana turns around with a blissful smile completely unrestrained even with the wild curtain of curls in her face, and she laughs breathily. "As are _you_, my lord," she manages, breath hitching, even through the wonderful sensation of those fingers bringing her to the brink and back again inside her, rendering her so delightfully wet. "As are you."

He kisses her, seemingly overwhelmed, pulling his fingers out. She takes advantage of that by moving back around, moving a hand seductively up his naked thigh and strokes his hardness while relishing in his answering, guttural groan.

"Have me," she snarls, eyes flashing. "Take me, I beg of you!"

Uther makes a broken sound, pulls her close and brushes his lips against her forehead, her nose before sliding over her mouth, deep and hungry. She moans into it, tries to convey how much she needs him, how much she wants him, and rocks against his cock in tandem to further emphasise her point.

When he still hesitates, she huffs impatiently and straddles him, parting herself to slide down on him, feeling him against and inside her wet heat. Uther closes his eyes, imposing and flushed against the white sheets of her bed, and she thinks she has never seen anything more beautiful than her King at this one moment as he presses her down, then, and begins to fuck her in earnest.

"The things you do to me, Morgana," Uther murmurs as she wraps her slender arms around him, gasping against his ear. "The things you _do_ to me — your impossible beauty, your dark eyes. It's almost as if you have me enchanted, in an entirely different way from that accursed _magic_..."

She bites down a little on his neck, digs her nails in so hard she's sure they'll leave angry welts down his sweaty back in the morrow. "No magic at _all_, my lord," she smirks cheekily, and does an experimental roll of her hips that has Uther emitting a long, low groan, hot and close to her mouth.

They move, and in that moment, they're just another two bodies in the kingdom of Camelot; there's no kingship to worry about, no questionable morals they have to examine. They're just two lovers, intertwined, engulfed in passion and the rawness of this moment they share between them.

Morgana comes, silently, as she bites her lip to keep from crying out, but a desperate keening sound escapes her when she clamps down on him. He feels it, shudders and pulls out before he reaches his peak, too; pulsing hotly over her legs and her sheets. Morgana is fascinated, more than a little curious, and without thinking about it, leans down to lick the rest of it off his cock — and is rewarded with a choked, "Morgana!" when she kisses the crown, deviously.

The gravity of the situation hits her with full force as she moves into him, his arms coming to lock comfortingly around her. Good God, what has she _done?_ Morgana is aghast. Uther came to her and she encouraged him to bed her and—

Uther presses a firm kiss to her brow, knuckles moving across her eyelids. She blinks, and looks up at his face, schooled again into a neutral expression.

"Sleep now," he says, and she doesn't think of questioning it because of the heavy feeling of sleep now settling sweetly over her. She opens her mouth, but Uther merely drags a thumb across her rich bottom lip, plump and red from his kisses. "Sleep now, my Morgana. We will talk of this in the morning."

So she does. She drifts off to sleep in Uther's arms, between the dark sheets of her sin and his, and doesn't think much of it until she rises.

The light sweeps over her in the morning, a hiccup of brightness, and Morgana stirs to the sound of Gwen bustling around her room. She looks down at herself in alarm, expecting to be naked, but finds that she has her shift on.

What happened...?

"Gwen?" She calls, uncertainly.

"My lady!" Gwen almost trips at her sudden proclamation, having been so intense in her concentration. "Breakfast will be ready, shortly. Do sleep for a few more minutes, if you'd like."

Morgana coughs, a little weakly. "I'm fine. Thank you." She examines her sheets, looks down at herself, and gingerly shifts around and — there, yes, feels the tell-tale soreness. She feels herself divided between wanting to burst into childish peals of laughter at the sheer glee she feels, and well, wanting to hide in a hole forever until all this passes (which is to say, never) for what she did last night.

_Uther._

She steps lightly out of bed, pulling her sheets behind her and wincing a little. She hopes Gwen won't really notice the state of her sheets, and... that she will hopefully have the discretion to not comment on it, either.

If word got out...

"Thank you," she says again, firmly, and Gwen turns around, that sweet smile still on her face. "Does His Majesty want to have lunch with Arthur, later? With me?"

"I believe so," Gwen turns back to her tray for Morgana, and picks out a dress for her. "Later, in your best red dress, I believe was the request."

Morgana smiles. _That red dress._

"Very well."


End file.
